


Coming Undone, One by One

by wehangout



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Slurs, Smut, corrective rape from 3.06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 19:24:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3458972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wehangout/pseuds/wehangout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do it,” he whispers.</p><p>You startle at being caught staring, wonder if you said that out loud, but you know you didn’t. Gallagher’s just talking out his ass, so you keep staring.</p><p>“Do what?” Your voice comes out almost as soft as his, and he lolls his head towards you, looks you right in the eye.</p><p>“Kiss me.”</p><p>“Fuck you.” Your heart seizes and your words come out in forced breath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Undone, One by One

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Dee for helping me with this one!
> 
> All mistakes are my own.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://wehangout.tumblr.com/)!

  
Ian Gallagher is a piece of shit.

He’s scrawny and lanky. He has stupid red hair and freckles. He’s annoying as fuck and way too smug. He wants to touch you all the time, he stares in this really irritating way, and he smiles softly when he thinks so one is looking. He uses the cheapest deodorant possible and makes it smell good. He makes a fucking mess when eating noodles. He can’t hold his liquor for shit.

And you don’t hate him.

You should hate him - oh how you should really fucking hate that little shit head - but you don’t, and that’s just another reason for you to hate yourself. But shit, it’s not your fucking fault that your list of Gallagher’s faults aren’t entirely faults. It’s his. It always is.

Fuck him.

You realise you don’t hate the guy outside the Kash and Grab, when he stands up to you the way his pussy of a boss can’t. You don’t like him for it - shit, you don’t actually like him for a long time after that - but it makes you respect him and whatever giant balls he must have for standing up to the Milkovich who wanted to kill him only weeks ago.

And then you’re thinking about his balls, and you smirk. You know you shouldn’t, know it’s the stupidest fucking move you could possibly make, but you do it. You might be hiding inside a closet with fifty-three locks, an big-ass iron grate, and something that looks remarkably like a vault door hat belongs in a bank, but you know a fucking queer when you see one.

And Gallagher is the biggest queer you’ve come across yet.

“You know where I live if you have a problem.”

If Gallagher doesn’t read that for the fucking invitation it is, then he’s stupid as well as fucking gay.

\--

You don’t know how it happens, what you do to make Gallagher so in to you, but he is. You know it, and you don’t like to think about shit like that.

You don’t like to think about Gallagher and the smiles he gives, the way his eyes soften, the hundred and eighty fucking times a day he tries to unnecessarily touch you.

You’re not a good person. You don’t look at people nicely, you don’t smile at people, and you don’t fucking call people and ask them out. You punch people, you tell them to hit the fucking road, and you threaten to cut their fucking tongue out if they even try to kiss you.

Gallagher is a good person. He deserves good things.

When he looks at you with those big, possibly wet, eyes? Saying he _needs_ to see you? No, you don’t deserve that.

\--

Though you don’t know when it happened, you know when you realise it, because all of a sudden you actually like the guy. Not _like_ -like, but just like. He’s okay. He doesn’t annoy the shit out of you when he talks. You can handle spending a little time with him before and after you fuck without wanting to rip your eyes out.

Or, in the case of the last few months, listen to him talk your ear off on the other side of the glass, no fucking included.

You could say no to his visits - even thought about it once or twice - but it doesn’t take a fucking genius to figure out your mood was a whole lot fucking better in the days after Gallagher’s first visit than it was in the days before. You still yell as much, glare as much, threaten as much … but alone, in your bed at night, you maybe almost smile.

This visit is just like any other, but instead of pretending to listen while Gallagher talks about the day care Debbie’s running, and how awkward it is at work now, and how they’re all putting money away for something called a squirrel fund, you’re actually listening. You’re paying fucking attention, and you don’t mean to make it obvious, but -

“Wait, and Frank never funds the squirrel fund?”

Gallagher pauses, looks up at you with those wide eyes, and smiles that coy fucking smile of his. But he says nothing, and you don’t want to be thankful - no to him, not to anybody - but you are and you hate it.

He keeps talking, and you do your goddamn best to pretend you aren’t listening, but all you can think is that, you don’t know when it happened, but it turns out you fucking like the guy.

Ian Gallagher has unlocked the first lock on your closet door.

\--

The night you take Gallagher to the dugouts is pretty fucking awesome.

Three nights later, something changes.

He fucks you; same place, same position, same hard and fast thrusts that make your head spin. But then he stops. He stops and he pulls out and he steps back.

Emptiness fills you, the kind you never knew existed, and you turn to glare.

“The fuck, Gallagher?”

He keeps walking backwards, pulling his shirt over his head while his jeans shuffle and stumble with his feet around his ankles. “Sick of this position,” he mutters, throwing his shirt to the ground and kicking off his shoes and jeans.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “I ain’t.”

He sits down, low and easy, hands on his knees and legs spread like he’s in a fucking porno, and fuck if it’s not a sight you could look at for the rest of your fucking life. You stare at him, tongue in cheek, teeth on tongue, silently taking him in, memorising what you can see because you have no fucking doubt you’ll be using this image in the future.

But once you get back to his face, his smirk is back and you growl.

“The fuck you just sittin’ there for, huh? Get back over here and fuck me.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

He slides on had up his inner thigh, and it’s light enough out that you can see his skin turn pink. You don’t know if it’s a blush of embarrassment, or something else, something better, but you don’t take you eyes off his hand. You watch, fucking stare, as he wraps his large palm and larger fingers around his even bigger fucking dick.

You grit your teeth. “Gallagher.”

“Ride me.”

Every bit of breath in your lungs rushes out, while every droplet of blood in your body rushes south. Ian, still sitting in front of you, still slowly stroking his dick, swims in your vision, and you lean back against the chain link fence, trying to find some kind of balance between what was happening thirty seconds ago to what’s happening now.

You hear a clicking, the sound of locks unlocking, but you don’t realise you’re actually considering it until you take a step forward and Ian groans.

You pause, bite your lip in concentration, do your fucking best to not let your uncertainty show, and look back up at Ian’s face. He’s red, face flushed as he jerks off in front of you - because apparently it’s the night for firsts - and one nipple glowing as he gently tugs at it, but he’s self-conscious. You can see in his eyes how uncertain he is, how he wonders if you’ll just tell him to fuck off and leave him to it.

You don’t. You can’t.

“Fuck.”

His hips stutter at your voice, and he groans. _“Yeah.”_

You do it. You don’t want to, except you really fucking want to, have wanted to for-fucking-ever, and desperately want to now. You walk over to him, your own body blushing as he stares at you hungrily, and wonder how the actual fuck you got yourself into this situation with this guy.

You don’t have time to think about it, though, because Ian lets go of himself, grabs at your hips, and swallows you down. Your knees buckle, and _fuck._ He moans around you, sucks you sloppily, and it’s the best fucking feeling in the world. You want to take a knee to his nose with he pulls back, but then he speaks.

“Get the fuck on me.”

That’s your line. Hearing it from him makes you drop, knees on the bench on either side of Ian’s legs, hands on his shoulders without a single thought to the fact that you’re touching him somewhere other than his dick - and without being coaxed to do so - and your cock against his, hot, heavy, wet -

“Fuck, Mick.”

You do no more than grunt in agreement, even the condom Ian’s wearing not getting in the way of how fucking hot if feels. The position is new, exciting, fucking terrifying. You already want to do it again.

“Hold still,” he mutters, and you realise you’ve been wiggling, trying to get as much fucking friction between the two of you as possible. You stop, knees already beginning to ache on the wooden bench, and wait, one, two, three seconds before.

“Oh, _fuck,_ Ian.”

Ian lets out the kind of girlish whimper you don’t think you’ve ever heard from him before, and begins pounding into your ass, not giving you any time to get used to this new position, and you wouldn’t have it any other fucking way because Jesus fuck. He hits that spot, that spot that makes you see fucking stares, with every drive of his hips, and all you can is hold on tight and try and keep up.

He moves forward, hands at your hips holding you close - close, close, _so fucking close_ \- and licks you, bites you, sucks marks into your neck and collarbone, and you let him. You fucking whine and moan and let him do as he pleases, because you want to. You want him to taste you, to shove his face into your neck as he gets close, to slide his lips over the few places you’ll let him. You want to squeeze and dig at his shoulders, tug at his hair, link your fingers behind his neck.

You want to take over when he starts to lose momentum, want to slip your ankles over his knees for better leverage, want to ride him until he’s whispering and grunting your name.

So you do.

\--

_Click-click-click-clickety-click-fucking-click._

You try. You try so fucking hard, but day by day that summer, Ian fucking Gallagher releases more and more of those locks on your closet door and you want to fucking die.

\--

You don’t mean to become his boyfriend, but you think that’s what you might be. No one sees you hang out with him outside of work, but all you ever seem to do is hang out with him outside of work. You’re hardly at home, you’re hardly sober, and you’re hardly fucking dressed. The whole summer is a mess of sticky limbs and awesome weed and sweaty half moans far too close to each others’ mouths, taking place in abandoned houses, old rooftops of condemned buildings, the cooler at work. Anywhere and everywhere.

Until Frank.

You don’t know how Ian did it. How he roped you into liking him while you were locked up, how he convinced you with two words to ride his dick in the old baseball field, how he convinced you to switch places one night and be the first guy to fuck him. But he did it, and it’s been the best summer of your fucking life. And when Frank catches him fucking you, it all goes down the drain.

Ian’s been slowly working away at you, all fucking summer, you’re sure of it. And that’s why, when Frank catches you and smiles that stupid smile, you’re done. You’re fucking over it. You have enough fucked up locks left in place to get the hell out of there alive if you make the right choices, and that’s exactly what you plan on doing.

Ian Gallagher is not the right fucking choice. Ian Gallagher is not your boyfriend. Ian Gallagher is nothing but a warm mouth to you.

It’s not your words that hurt you, it’s not the look in Ian’s eyes, it’s not the fucking tears forming in those eyes - it’s fear. You’re fucking scared, and you can admit that to yourself because you’d have to be fucking stupid not to be scared.

Frank is a big mouth drunk who can’t raise his own kids let alone keep his goddamn mouth shut, and that’s just not good enough for you.

When you walk out of the Kash and Grab, you remind yourself over and over and over, until it becomes a mantra with every hurried footstep you make: you hurt because you’re scared, you hurt because you’re scared, _you hurt because you’re scared_.

You never once mange to believe it.

\--

Ian doesn’t come to visit you this time.

None of those broken locks manage to repair themselves.

\--

 _Liking_ Ian - really fucking liking Ian - is something you come to terms with relatively quickly and easily. It takes a bit of denying, a couple of rolled eyes, more than one glare in the guy’s direction once you’re out of juvie, but other than that it just … is. You like him. You fuck him. You like him and you fuck him.

This awful, sick, _green_ feeling that burns inside of you when he talks to the old guy is different. It’s mean and it’s raw and it’s far more important than _like._ You know this before you even know what it is.

And then Ian says it.

“We mostly just fuck.”

_Click._

The words ring in your ears. For hours. Even after hitting the old fag and managing to get Ian to ditch their date, the words ring and they’re shrill and tinny and painful.

But you’re not jealous. You don’t do jealousy because you don’t care.

You snort at that conclusion. You can fake a lack of jealousy all you want, but not caring? Not caring that Ian’s fucking some old queen? Not caring that Ian’s going out in public with this grandpa? Not caring that Ian’s fucking someone else and happily going on dates with someone else?

Bullshit.

But it doesn’t matter. It stops mattering the second Ian gets up to follow you down the street, matters even less when he grins that stupid grin while catching his breath, and doesn’t matter at fucking all when you grab his neck and he outright fucking beams.

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt as free as you do when he chases you down the alleyway.

You end up on the El, heading back to the south side, sweaty and smiling, chest heaving as Ian chuckles next to you. It’s stupid, so fucking dumb, but just having Gallagher chase you down a fucking street makes you smile like the goddamn fool you clearly are.

That doesn’t stop you from doing it, though. Not until you’re back in on the south side, where it’s too fucking dangerous to be smiling while out in public with another guy. You want to take Ian somewhere else, somewhere you can be alone with him in broad daylight without anyone giving you the kind of look that makes you sick.

And Gallagher, for whatever he seems to want from you, gets it. He gets that you’re not entirely simpatico with doing whatever it is you’re doing with him in public, and leads you to a house in a neighbourhood even worse than your own, but you dutifully follow, lighting up a smoke as you go.

“Where we headed, Major Dick?”

He grins. “Does that make you my Nix?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind, we’re here now, c’mon.”

Here is a house. A fucking house. A couple of windows are broken in, the paint is almost nonexistent, and the lawns reach your mid-thigh.

“Where the fuck are we?”

“Mrs. Henderson’s house.”

“And who the fuck is Mrs. Henderson when she at home?”

“She used to come into the store all the time last summer, remember? Spent most of her pension check on scratchy cards?”

You shake your head. You don’t admit that the only two people you took any notice of in that store last summer was Ian and Frank.

“Well she died a few months back,” Ian continues, “and the house has been condemned.”

You snort. “Man, if you think I’m gonna go in there so we have somewhere to fuck -”

“Not _in_ there, _up_ there.” He points to the roof, and before you can even think of how to reply, he’s off, walking around the back of the house like he fucking owns it.

And you follow. Like a fucking puppy.

There’s a couple of old boxes, a few empty beer crates, and a rubbish bin around the back of Mrs. Henderson’s place, and Gallagher quickly arranges them how he wants them, and begins to climb. There’s a ladder attached to the wall, a little over halfway up, and you shake your head at the lengths this guy will go to fuck you.

When you follow him without a word of protest, you scowl at yourself.

It’s hot and sticky on the concrete roof, the sun still burning hard. The roof is flat, like most in the neighbourhood, with a wall going around the edge to keep you from falling, but all you can think when you see it is _privacy._ No one will see you and Ian up here, and if someone happens to climb the pile of trash to get to the ladder, then you’ll have enough fucking warning to get your shit together.

But Ian sits with his back against the wall, smoking and smiling, watching the sun slowly begin to lower, and nothing else matters. He looks so relaxed, so happy, and all you want to do is join in on that.

Another one unlocks. There are more unlocked than there are locked now.

You sit with him, the roof beneath you hot, and the sun above you even hotter, but you don’t care. It’s the kind of dry, stinking-hot evening that usually makes you miserable, but you’re just not and you know you should do something about that feeling, but all you can really think about is that one droplet of sweat slowly making its way down Gallagher’s neck -

Fuck.

That’s not okay. Obsessing over anything to do with Gallagher’s neck is not okay, because you might let him go to fucking town with his mouth on you, but you keep your mouth away from him … well, you suck his dick and you suck it really fucking well and often and enthusiastically, but that’s not the same.

It’s not the same as kissing and licking and tasting patches of skin that aren’t used explicitly for sex. But fuck, you want nothing more than to attach your mouth to that pale neck, that bead of sweat, every fucking inch of sweaty skin on that hot body. You want to lave at the cord that pops out when he tilts his head back, bite into the spot where his shoulder meets his neck, bury your nose into the area below his jaw.

You kind of want to kiss him.

“Do it,” he whispers.

You startle at being caught staring, wonder if you said that out loud, but you know you didn’t. Gallagher’s just talking out his ass, so you keep staring.

“Do what?” Your voice comes out almost as soft as his, and he lolls his head towards you, looks you right in the eye.

“Kiss me.”

“Fuck you.” Your heart seizes and your words come out in forced breath.

He smiles and shrugs. Looks back out to the sun.

“Who the fuck said anything about kissing, anyway?” You ignore the fact that your voice is still far quieter than it needs to be.

A sigh. “No one, Mick.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m just sayin’ -”

“Don’t say nothin’.”

“- if you want to -”

“I don’t want to.”

“- you can.”

“Fuck you.”

Silence follows and you glare hard at the sky, at the tree next to this piece of shit house, at anything but Gallagher. And he just sits quietly next to you, saying nothing, doing nothing, just sitting.

You steal a quick look at him, at his lashes that look like they’re made of fucking gold in the sunlight, at his slightly parted lips, at the new drip of sweat on his neck. Your mouth goes dry.

You shove him, a heavy shove to his shoulder. “Lie the fuck down.”

He frowns at you, but does as you say, probably fucking hoping you’re about to give in and kiss him. You climb on top of him instead, undo his belt, lick long, messy stripes over his dick until he’s good and hard.

Because you can’t kiss him - you can’t even bring yourself to do everything you want to do to the soft looking skin of his neck - but you can do this. You can do this without the worry of fucking everything. You can suck his cock, nuzzle at his ginger fucking pubes, and worship his dick with your mouth the way you want to worship the rest of him.

\--

Gallagher brings the old guy up the next day, starts talking about how he wants his own shit robbed, you can’t help yourself.

“I don’t know what you see in that geriatric viagroid.”

Gallagher say something about gifts or room service, and it takes everything you have not to roll your eyes, but then -

“He’s not afraid to kiss me.”

His words hurt, and you’re not sure why, don’t want to think about why, but maybe that’s why you kiss him the next day. Maybe you want to prove that you’re just as good as some old fuck who needs little blue pills to keep it up. Maybe you want to prove Ian wrong - there’s no way in fuck you’re fucking scared to kiss. Maybe you want to show Ian that you can do things he wants, even if you can’t make things real between the two of you.

Maybe you just want to kiss Ian.

So you do. And when you do, every single lock on that closet door pops open.

\--

Ian stays the night.

Ian sleeps in your bed.

Ian wakes you up with his arms around your waist and his hard cock pressing at your ass.

Ian watches the Russian whore fuck you.

You can’t stand it. Can’t stand the look on his face, the tears forming in your eyes, the ache in your fucking chest. It’s done. The whole charade the two of you had going is so fucking over that you can barely breathe, but you know it’s done so you give up. You just fucking give up because you can’t take looking at him anymore.

You flip the whore over and fuck her, hard and relentless, putting on the kind of show you know your old man wants, the kind of show you know will hurt Ian, and with every thrust into her, you mentally relock every fucking one of those locks Gallagher has managed to undo.

You have to. It’ll kill him if you don’t.

\--

You don’t say a single word to Ian the next time you see him, but with every shot you make after he leaves, those locks open right back up until you’re shooting at an iron grate that’s already rusted and brittle.

\--

You’re too violent, too angry, too mean, too drunk, not at all drunk enough.

Every word he says, every look he gives you, every step closer he gets has that iron grate crumbling to pieces in front of you, and you just fucking can’t.

“You love me and you’re gay.”

Something in your chest shatters at the sight on him laying on the ground, hurting, because of you.

 _Because of you_.

Life and every-fucking-thing about it would just be easier if Gallagher meant nothing to you, if you meant nothing to Gallagher, and your mind is such a swirling piece of shit, a rioting need to protect-protect-protect that all you can do is push.

And kick.

\--

“Four years, minimum.”

Three words. Three fucking words and you break. There are no more locks, the iron grate is in pieces at your feet, and all the vault floor needs in one good pull. One fucking pull, Ian!

But he doesn’t pull. Because he’s leaving.

_“Don’t.”_

_Don’t_ do this.

 _Don’t_ go.

 _Don’t_ join the army.

 _Don’t_ die.

 _Don’t_ leave.

 _Don’t_ leave me here.

 _Don’t_ go without me.

 _Don’t_ give up on me.

 _Don’t_ make me say it.

 _Don’t_ leave me.

 _“Don’t_ what?”

 


End file.
